


Recollection

by skipper_class



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, BLUE TEAM PROBLEMS, Background Relationships, Bullying, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Potentially excessive cursing, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skipper_class/pseuds/skipper_class
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is incredibly wrong. Nothing makes sense, and Tucker doesn't know how to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was playing in reverse.

Tucker only thought on the strangeness of it for a moment before he passed by. It was freezing and he needed to find Church.

DVD players creepily rewinding on their own could wait.

The apartment was dark, the power blown out, and Caboose had gone missing again. He blindly traveled down the narrow hall leading to both their bedrooms. What a great way to spend a Friday night. Somehow they always found a way to suck. He walked by the bathroom, paused, then cautiously walked back. Someone was muttering profanities inside. Tucker stopped outside the closed door, full of dread.

“Dude. Please tell me you didn’t run out of toilet paper in there.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Oh _God_ — _seriously_?”

The door swung open. Tucker screamed, “ _No!_ ”, and shielded his eyes, but there wasn’t any need to, not really, since Church was standing there fully dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. He was taller than Tucker, but only by a little, with dark hair and green eyes, and scruff on his chin. But man did he look _rough_. Like, look-who-just-fell-down-fifty-flights-of-stairs rough. Honestly he had probably just rolled out of bed, but with Church you never knew. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Church shot Tucker a pissed glare before turning back to the sink mirror. It was littered with bloody tissues. Tucker blinked, and for the first time, noticed the bleeding cut on Church’s forehead. 

“What happened?” 

Church muttered something about tripping into his closet. Tucker failed not to laugh. Church ignored him, taking the time to sloppily tape a patch of gauze over his cut. Then he turned towards Tucker and punched him in the arm. 

“Ow!” 

“Is Caboose here?” 

Tucker scowled. “ _No_. I don’t know where he went. I came out and he was gone.” 

Church scowled back. “Perfect.” 

They were of course talking about their third roommate who was always either the source of trouble or the one to run when trouble came. 

“Man, this is just great,” Church groaned. “I am _not_ digging through a dumpster again to find him—”

Something clattered in the kitchen. They froze. It was eight at night and they were the only ones in the apartment. Should’ve been the only ones in the apartment. And it sure as heck wasn’t Caboose. Tucker had already checked before coming to find Church. 

“Um…what was that?” he whispered. 

Church pushed past him into the hall, brows furrowed and eyes alert. Tucker grabbed his arm. 

“ _Wait_ ,” he hissed. 

Church impatiently looked back. Tucker frowned, jerking his head towards the bathroom. 

“Aren’t you gonna throw those away?” 

“Throw _what_ away?”

“The tissues. It’s gross.”

Church stared. “Tucker. There could be a burglar in here and you care about some freaking tissues?” he incredulously asked, as if Tucker’s the one who’s ridiculous. 

“They’re bloody and gross!” Tucker snapped. 

Church huffed. “You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me—” 

More clattering. They both shut up. Sharing a mutual glance, they fell into line, Tucker behind Church, as they crept down the hall towards the kitchen. Tucker lingered in the living room as Church pressed himself against the wall beside the kitchen doorway and peered inside. His eyes went to the TV, glowing faintly in the dark. 

It’s still on. And still rewinding. 

Damn. Talk about creepy. 

All of a sudden, Church cursed. Tucker tore his gaze away and went into the kitchen, looking for the other man. He found his roommate standing over several pots that had fallen from the dish rack. Tucker’s shoulders slumped in relief. 

“No burglar?” 

“No burglar,” Church confirmed. His face twisted into something close to concern. _Close to_. The day Church actually looked concerned for someone was the day Tucker died— because he would never live to see it. “But where the heck did Caboose go?” 

Tucker shrugged. “I don’t know. How did none of us notice Caboose leave?” he wondered as he went into the kitchen. Goosebumps ran along his arms. Holy cow— it was twice as cold in here! 

“ _I_ was sleeping,” Church answered. “What were _you_ doing?” 

Tucker snorted, stooping to grab the fallen pots. “The same as you. I was….” he suddenly trailed off. He hadn’t been sleeping. He had been… Tucker furrowed his brows. What _had_ he been doing? 

Church didn’t really seem to care, going to one of their cabinets near the sink and swinging it open. A breaker box was inside full of switches. It never came with a cover— a safety hazard Church didn’t stop bitching about even when Tucker reminded him that this is what they got for paying to live in a ridiculously cheap apartment off campus, in the grungiest part of town. 

“This thing is so annoying,” Church growled. “It always trips.”

Tucker set the pots on their cluttered counter. “But you still signed the lease to live here next year.” 

“So did you, dickhead.” 

A chill racked up Tucker’s spine. He shivered and pressed his arms against his chest. “What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with the AC,” Church replied, fiddling with the switches. Tucker frowned. 

“But it’s _freezing_.” 

“It’s _70_ degrees in here, Tucker.” 

“ _What?_ No way!” 

Church flipped the main power switch on and off multiple times. Nothing. He sighed and looked over his shoulder, but any complaint he had fell off the tip of his tongue when he saw Tucker hunched over and lips nearly blue. “What the— are you really that cold?” 

Tucker scowled. “I told you, it’s freezing.” 

“Huh. Maybe you’re sick—”

The lights flickered on. 

“Oh thank _God_!” Church slammed the cabinet door shut. “I swear if we get charged some ridiculously high bill for electricity again, I’ll find the landlord and-”

“-burn his house down.” Tucker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you say that all the time.” He dropped his arms to his sides. Weird. It wasn’t that cold anymore. But now his throat itched. He uncomfortably cleared his throat. Maybe he _was_ coming down with something. 

“Well I’ll get to it,” Church muttered. “Eventually.” He looked Tucker over. “You look fine now. Maybe it was just chills.” 

“Maybe.” Now that the lights were on and they weren’t in danger of being murdered, Tucker remembered the reason why he was looking for Church in the first place. “Hey…about tomorrow…” 

Church’s face tightened. “What about tomorrow?” 

All of a sudden Tucker felt ten times smaller. Poor timing maybe, but if he didn’t ask now he would forget to later— and by then it’d be too late. “Look. Umm…I know you probably don’t want to go, but Caboose and I were going to visit Tex’s—”

“You’re right, Tucker,” Church bitterly interrupted. “I _don’t_ want to go.” 

Silence. 

Then Tucker’s mouth began to fumble. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Uh...okay,” he quickly replied. “Got it.”

Church squinted, looking as if he wanted to say something else, but then his phone rang. Tucker backed up and went to the fridge. His throat was on _fire_. Jeez— he had definitely caught some sort of bug. 

As he rummaged through their over-packed fridge in search of anything to drink that wasn’t beer or soda, he listened in on Church’s call. It wasn’t eavesdropping. If Church really didn’t want him to listen in then he would’ve left the kitchen. 

“ _Caboose?_ Where the hell are you?” 

Tucker reluctantly grabbed the milk. They really needed to invest in juice or something. 

“What do you mean you ‘got lost’? Why’d you leave in the first place?” 

Their roommate mumbled something on the other end of the line. Church let out something in between a scream and a groan. 

“For the _last time_ Caboose, the Potato Man isn’t real. It was a _joke_. Tucker was _lying_.” 

Tucker almost spit the milk out from where he was drinking from the jug. Choking and wheezing on laughter, he struggled to re-cap the milk. Church gave him a mild look of disgust until Caboose’s distressed shouts dragged his attention back to the phone. 

“Alright, calm down! I’ll come and get you. Just…don’t move.” Church started to hang up, but stopped, quickly adding, “-and don’t go dumpster diving again!” 

The ‘Okay Church!’ from Caboose was so loud even Tucker heard it over his snickers. 

“You’re such a dick,” Church scowled as he shoved his phone into his pocket. “The Potato Man? Seriously?” 

Tucker shrugged, glad whatever awkwardness between them had passed. “He asked for a bedtime story so I gave him one,” he said. 

“About a giant potato that sucks people’s souls out of their _butts_?” Church incredulously asked. 

“Only if they didn’t go to sleep before twelve!” Tucker defended. “He went to sleep right afterwards.” 

“Yeah, and now he’s scared of the dark.” 

“He was always scared of the dark.”

“ _Ugh_ , whatever,” Church started to leave the kitchen. “I’m gonna go get the moron before he does anything stupid.” 

“Check the DVD player while you’re out there!” Tucker called behind him, shoving the milk back into the fridge. “It was acting real weird!”

Church gave him a strange look as he left. “Tucker, we don’t _have_ a DVD player. Go to sleep man, I think you’ve got the flu.”

Tucker scoffed. “What are you talking about?” He closed the fridge and jogged out the kitchen. “Of course we have a—” he cut himself off. The living room was empty, the TV shut off. Tucker’s eyes fell on the small shelf above the TV. 

No DVD player. 

He rubbed his eyes, looked away then back again. It still wasn’t there. Tucker’s stomach churned. 

“Church?” 

He wandered into the living room, looking down both ends of the hall. Church wasn’t at the front door and it didn’t sound like he was near the bedrooms. Feeling distinctly out of place, and somewhat unnerved, Tucker went down and checked the bedrooms anyway. 

His roommate wasn’t there. And he wasn’t in the bathroom either. Tucker scowled. 

“Oh come on, Church!”

No reply. 

“This isn’t funny!” 

His words fell on empty space. Tucker walked quickly to the front door. Church’s shoes were still at the mat, his car keys on the metal hook nailed into the wall. Tucker threw the door open and looked into the hall. 

It was just as empty, and just as quiet. What the hell…? They lived in an apartment off campus with sixty other, equally poor, and equally loud college kids. It would never be this quiet, even on a holiday. 

Tucker winced as a headache started pounding at his head. The lights in the hallway dimly flickered, but Tucker didn’t notice, overcome with a wave of nausea so strong he suddenly didn’t care about finding Church. He just wanted to lie down and shut his eyes forever. 

He slowly stumbled backwards into the apartment and closed the door, resting his face on its rugged, but more importantly, _cool_ surface. He stood there waiting for the world to stop spinning and his head to stop hurting. Five, maybe ten minutes passed. He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t really care. Tucker had almost lulled himself into a state of sleep when a loud, bright voice behind him exclaimed, 

“Tucker! You’re back!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tucker! You're back!"

Tucker blearily opened his eyes, doubting his hearing for a long second. When it became apparent that the door he was leaning on wasn’t going to give him any answers, he sluggishly turned around. And almost had a heart attack. 

“ _Caboose?!_ ” 

His curly blond roommate, all six feet and four inches of him, eagerly swept him into a hug. “You were gone for so long!” he eagerly exclaimed in that halting, exaggerated speech of his. 

“What the—Ow! Let go of me Caboose!” Tucker screeched, ill with vertigo and lack of air all at once. Caboose ignored him, continuing to talk. 

“Yeah…I was hoping you weren’t coming back. But here. You. Are! Church will be so happy!” 

Tucker’s ears perked. “Church? He’s here?” he asked. Then his face twisted in confusion. “Wait. No, _you’re_ here?” 

Caboose set him on the ground. “Silly Tucker. Still so confused.” He condescendingly patted Tucker on the head. Then he turned and walked away. “Well. I will be watching the television. Try not to get lost again!”

Tucker stood frozen for a good minute before following after Caboose. He didn’t feel so tired anymore. Now he just fucking confused. He watched as Caboose settled into the living room couch and went back to watching whatever inane cartoon was on before Tucker appeared. 

Tucker looked at the TV, feeling disgustingly sick. The TV with a DVD player. 

What. The. Hell? 

A loud curse came from the kitchen. 

Tucker spun on his heels and practically ran inside. And there was Church, picking a jar of peanut butter off the floor. 

“Church— _there you are!_ ” he cried. 

Church looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh. You’re back,” he said, as if Tucker had only gone on some planned sabbatical overseas and had just returned, souvenirs in tow. He put the jar on the counter beside his newly made sandwich, then picked up a knife, beginning to cut his food in half as he spoke. “Did you figure it out?” 

Tucker stared at him. “ _What_ are you _talking about_? What is going on?!” 

Church frowned and glanced over his shoulder. “Why’re you asking me? You’re the one who keeps popping in and out.” 

“ _Huh?_ ” 

And the absolutely frustrated and baffled look on Tucker’s face must’ve said something, because Church lowered the knife and fully turned around to face him. “You don’t…remember?” 

Tucker thought his head was going to explode. “Remember _what?!_ Church, I swear if stuff doesn’t start making sense RIGHT NOW I’m gonna-!”

“OK! OK! Relax!” Church hurried over, raising his hands. He ushered Tucker to the plastic table shoved in the far corner of the kitchen, on the side opposite of the fridge, and forced him to sit in a lopsided chair. The table itself was small and round and piled in bills and newspaper coupons, neither of which did anything to change Tucker’s atrociously bad mood. Church sat in the chair across from him, looking pensive and wary. 

“I’ll start off easy, okay?” he began. “Just, you know, don’t bite my head off or anything.” 

Tucker pressed his lips together, making no promises. Church let out a huge, exhausted breath and ran his hands through his hair. 

“Look, man… I don’t know how or…or _why_ … But you keep disappearing. And then appearing again. This is like your third time. I think you’re stuck in some kind of loop.” 

Tucker stared. And stared some more. Church awkwardly cleared his throat. 

“…Yeah. I mean… that’s basically it. Except the other two times you remembered and didn’t freak out.”

Tucker waited for the ‘sike!’ to come. For Caboose to come bursting into the kitchen with balloons and a cake, and remind Tucker that it was his birthday and this was all some elaborate prank. Except it was the middle of summer, as far as Tucker was concerned, so his birthday had already passed long ago. And _Church_. Man, he looked so dead serious and _nervous_ — the way he only looked when he was delivering bad news that was one hundred percent completely true. 

Suddenly all anger and frustration Tucker had was gone and he was left, feeling like a thoroughly worn out towel. He laid his head on the stacks of bills and coupons, wanting nothing more than to wake up from whatever nightmare he fell into. 

“I’m…looping?” he weakly said. 

And something must’ve _really_ been wrong because Church almost sounded sympathetic as he said, “Yeah. Uh…sorry man. I, um, never had to break it to you before so…” 

“Wait.” Tucker lifted his head, brows kitted together. “If I’m looping…and you remembered me looping…does that mean you’re looping too?” 

Church frowned. “I mean…maybe? But it’s not like Caboose and I are going anywhere. You’re the only one who actually leaves.” 

“ _Why?_ ” 

“Don’t ask me. Seriously,” Church sighed. “Last time you said you were trying to fix it— whatever that means. You didn’t tell me anything else.” He paused as his own words made it back into his ears. Tucker jumped in alarm as Church leaped to his feet, hurrying to grab the knife he cut his sandwich with. It was slathered in peanut butter. 

“Here.” Church held it out to Tucker. “Maybe you’ll remember if you take this.” 

Tucker scowled. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m being serious,” Church insisted. “The other times you came, you asked for the knife.” 

“If you’re lying, don’t think I won’t take this thing and stab you in the face,” Tucker muttered. But he reached out and swiped the knife all the same. It was gross and sticky and _smelled_ and all Tucker really felt like was an idiot. He and Church waited for several seconds in a heavy silence, full of expectation and anxiety. Finally Church spoke. 

“Well?”

Tucker ripped his eyes from the knife to glare. “Well _what?_ I’m still here and—”

And suddenly he wasn’t.

 

He was outside, and it was storming, the backstreets of the city dark and barely lit by the busted lamp lights along the bumpy road. He was sopping wet, like someone had tried to drown him, and when it didn’t work the first time they tried again. His vision doubled and swooned in bright colors before it rattled back to normal. Tucker recognized this place. 

_Yeah…I…_ remember _this_. Tucker looked over his shoulder. Church’s busted blue jeep sat at the curb, its paint peeling and side dented from that one time Caboose drove it into pole. Tucker could feel the jeep key’s in his back pocket, along with his phone and wallet. 

Tucker turned his gaze towards the blackened skies. It hadn’t escaped his notice that he was dressed differently before. Gone was the grease-stained tank top and shorts. He was in sneakers, and jeans, and an absolutely soaked black hoodie. But... that was odd. Tucker hadn’t worn a hoodie since…

Lightning flashed. 

Tucker’s eyes fell towards an alleyway across the street, drenched in shadows. His stomach twisted and turned. He _remembered_ this. 

His fingers clenched around a knife in his right hand— not the same one Church had given him. This one was a pocket knife, black, lined in silver. A gift from Tex. 

Lightning cracked again and this time he could see her, standing in the alley, back turned, offering a hand to someone hunched over on the ground. No. She _can’t_. Tucker’s feet moved before his mind had time to make sense of what was happening or why he was running. But he wouldn’t make it in time. He knew he wouldn’t. 

He remembered this. And he didn’t want to. But he remembered so painfully it hurt to even imagine. 

“Tex— _don’t!_ ”

 

She looked over the ridge of her cards to give him a strange look. “Tough luck. You lose.” And then she laid her hand, a Full House, on the table in between them. 

Tucker wanted to whine about his loss, really he did. But something stopped him. A strange sense of unease. He looked at the cards in his own hand. 

Three of a kind and a stupid eight of Clubs. Damn. If he just had the Jack of Hearts he would’ve won. 

Tucker tossed the cards on the table, scowling as Tex stole all the pennies they’d been betting with. 

They were in the living room of the apartment Tucker, Church, and Caboose shared, sitting at the low table in the middle of the couch and TV. Two lamps in each corner of the room lit the area in a dim, orange glow. Caboose was snoring on the couch, erratically splayed, and Church was in the kitchen— grumbling loudly as he messed with the breaker box. 

It was raining hard outside, and the power had just come back on after tripping again. Tucker had a sneaking suspicion Tex might’ve stole a card from the deck to get the hand that she did, but he wasn’t about to say anything seeing as she could easily throw him into a German suplex, then stand up and do it again until he cried mercy. 

He scoffed at the thought. That was _definitely_ something he didn’t miss about… Tucker frowned. …Miss about what? He rubbed his forehead, an ache starting up in the back of his skull. 

“What’s with you?” Tex asked, shuffling the cards. “You’re usually making a fuss about a rematch.” 

“I…” Tucker looked up at her, frowning deeper. 

Tex stared at him, continuing to shuffle. Her blonde hair was short, cut down just above her shoulders, eyes grey and dark, and as always, unreadable. She was in a tank top and jeans just like him. But unlike him she probably didn’t feel like she was about to hurl. 

“Um… I…” Tucker swallowed, hard. Tex’s stare was getting real unnerving. “I don’t know.” 

“Know what?” 

“Uh-”

“ _What?_ You guys finished without me? Come _on!_ ” Church complained, walking back into the room. He threw himself on the floor next to Tex. She stopped looking at Tucker to roll her eyes at her boyfriend. 

“You lost four hands ago,” she said. 

“Yeah, but still,” Church muttered. He glanced over at Tucker and made a face. “What’s with you?” 

Tucker opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His stomach hurt. Church and Tex exchanged a glance. 

“Hey…what’s _with_ you?” Church asked again. 

Tucker looked down. Why did his stomach hurt so much? It felt like it was bruised. No… _more_ than bruised. Like someone had mistaken it for a brick wall and swung a sledgehammer into it. And suddenly Tex looked pissed, her expression clouded in a dark, broiling anger that made Tucker panic. She leaned towards him, hands reaching. 

“What did that bastard do to you?” she snarled. 

Tucker instinctively drew back. “Nothing! I— _nothing!_ ” 

Tex stood, eyes unforgiving. “ _Why did you go visit him again?_ ” 

“I didn’t! I mean I did, but it was only for, like, a second! I had to make sure he was okay— you know, still alive and breathing!” Tucker vaguely wondered what the hell he was talking about. “He didn’t do anything. He was asleep on the couch. I just went in and—” The words coming out of his mouth made enough sense in his head, but as they came out of his mouth, well… they didn’t really sound like his own. In fact, he was starting to feel like he was incredibly out of place— like an outsider listening in on a private argument. 

He _was_ an outsider listening in. 

Tucker stood in the hallway, watching himself curl away from Tex and Church, arguing in a way a desperate, terrified child would. Tex was getting angrier but not at him. He knew she was never really angry at him— except the one time he shot a BB gun into her ass— but that was an accident and a long story that he’d rather not think about. 

“It doesn’t matter!” he was saying. “Why does it _matter?_ ” 

“You’re still saying that now?!” 

Tucker kept watching, unable to tear his eyes away. Now Church was standing, trying to calm his girlfriend down, and Caboose was waking up, and Tucker— the one that was and wasn’t him— was getting off the floor and running. Right towards him. 

Tucker tensed and braced for impact, but the other him ran straight through, and out the front door. And Tucker went with him, tracking the memory, unable to see what happened after he left; what was said and what was done. He almost wished he could. 

But no. He was here; looking at himself as the other Tucker hurried down the hall and took the stairs downstairs. 

This time Tucker didn’t follow. He knew where he went next.

Grif would groan and complain as he knocked on the door, but let him in all the same, and for the next three hours he would be stuck on a couch in between Grif and his boyfriend Simmons as they fought over the relevance of Star Trek and Battlestar Galatica which would of course end in cry-fest on Simmons' behalf when Grif finally snapped that no one even remembered what they were.

Tucker would leave shortly afterwards and return upstairs. 

Tex would be gone. Church would be pissed. And Caboose would still be in the living room, hopelessly confused.

 

Tucker didn’t like this whole looping crap. Especially once he realized the only thing he was looping through were his memories.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you guys who showed interest! I've gotten a good chunk of this already written out, and am excited to post them once I'm done editing. Hopefully you guys stick around, even if it might be confusing at first!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker didn’t like this whole looping crap. Especially once he realized the only thing he was looping through were his memories.

The last month of school was always the best. 

Tucker sat the curb outside their high school, practically baking in the summer heat. Ripped jeans and a shirt, his dreads short and pulled into a small tail at the nape of his neck; Tucker was ridiculously uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time with his skateboard on his lap, absorbing the rays from the blazing sun. 

Cars pulled in and out of the large parking lot as parents came to pick up their kids. The other waiting kids loitered on the front steps of the Carver High, or sat at the outside lunch tables talking with friends— there were even some getting homework done. Good for them. Tucker tried not to think about the loads of his own work weighing down the bag pressed against his leg. That was for another time. Like…never. 

Somewhere in the back field of the school, the band could be heard practicing for the weekend’s upcoming football game. He could only imagine that their band director, Kimball, was having a conniption. There were four sousaphones, three of them girls, and one of them Simmons. And so long as Simmons was in that group, there was no way he _wasn’t_ fumbling his steps. 

Tucker shook his head. Simmons really needed to get over his irrational fear of girls. They were both juniors and Tucker had gotten laid about four times more than the zero times Simmons had, to which Simmons always argued that he was waiting for the ‘special one’ and Tucker ‘should learn to do the same’. 

Whatever. No thanks.

“Um…excuse me.” 

Tucker looked to his left. Some blond guy with freckles stood there looking awkward in a pressed shirt and slacks, armpits stained with sweat and one of those messenger bags Tucker only saw on people over the age of fifty slung loosely over his shoulder. 

Tucker narrowed his eyes. This guy didn’t look familiar. Like— at all. And he looked about four or five years older than everyone else. They were a pretty small school, and everyone knew everyone since the first grade. Which of course made sleeping around kind of weird, since it was never really a private affair and almost everyone would know the next day who’d been screwing who, even the teachers. And that was _not_ something Tucker liked to think about. Ever. 

But this guy was still looking at Tucker and Tucker wanted him to _stop_ , so he asked as rudely as possible, “Can I _help_ you?” 

The young man coughed into his fist. “Er- yes. I’m looking for the front office.”

“It’s inside.” 

“Yes. I know that.” 

They stared at one another. When it became apparent Tucker wasn’t going to say anything else, the other guy spoke again. 

“I mean, do you know _where_ it is?”

“Dude. I just said it’s inside.” 

The young man looked at him as if he were debating whether or not to hit Tucker over the head with his bag. Then he took in a deep breath and forced a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his grey eyes. “I see. Thanks,” he shortly said, before briskly walking past and heading towards the high school’s front steps. 

Tucker rolled his eyes and went back to watching the parking lot, suddenly very annoyed. His bad mood stayed with him even after Tex swerved into the lot and honked for him to come over. 

She was a senior and went to school in another district nearby, but always swung by to pick him and Church up. Except Church had skipped school today, moaning about the flu. 

Tucker fully planned on going over to his friend’s house and dumping all the homework he made Tucker pick up for him onto his head. Or maybe he would burn it. Church would cry about his grades for days. 

Tex honked again, more impatiently than before. 

Tucker reluctantly got up and trudged over to her black sedan. It wasn’t a car he expected her to drive. Honestly he thought the first car she would’ve invested in would be a racecar she stole from NASCAR. 

Tex cocked an eyebrow as he climbed into her car, chucking his skateboard in the backseat. “Bad day?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, yanking his seatbelt over his chest, and trying not to think whether or not this would be the kind of normal conversation a mother had with their son.

“We goin’ to Church’s?” Tex asked, pulling out of the lot. “Caboose has been there all day.” 

“How come Caboose got to skip but you made _me_ go?”

“Because Caboose would’ve just run back home to make sure Church wasn’t dead.” Tex slowed at a Stop sign. “Besides, someone needed to pick up all your homework.” 

“Me. Of course,” Tucker grumbled. 

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, but it was a comfortable silence they were both used to.

 

Two days later was a Friday, and as Tucker slouched in the back of the auditorium alongside Caboose— sniffling and sneezing and quite possibly dying with the flu Church no doubt purposefully infected them with— their principal announced their old counselor’s retirement and introduced the new counselor who’d take his place for the rest of this year and the next and—

Oh God. It was _him_. 

Tucker sat up, startling Caboose who’d been drooling on his shoulder. 

“Wha- what? Did we win?” Caboose babbled, very awake and alert as he looked around. 

“No Caboose,” Tucker groaned, feeling a million times worse than before. He slumped back in his seat. “We’re screwed.”

 

It was the last week of school and Tucker was in the second to last place he ever wanted to be.

Across from him in a small, white-walled office full of motivation posters and an obscene amount of cat pictures, sat _David Washington_ , waiting for Tucker to open up and spill his heart out about his life when all Tucker _really_ wanted to do was burn all the cat pictures, learn why his counselor was only about four years older, and ask who the heck thought his name was a good idea.

In no particular order. 

“Can I go?” he asked instead. 

David Washington frowned. “Lavernius, you just got here five minutes ago,” he said. 

“Don’t call me that,” Tucker snapped, much more harshly than planned. But the name brought back memories he didn’t ever want to think about again. Memories that still gave him nightmares. David Washington looked startled, but only for a second, before his composure came back. 

“Would you rather I call you Tucker instead?” he slowly questioned. 

“Whatever, _David Washington_ ,” Tucker uttered, slouching down in the uncomfortably hard plastic chair he’d been forced to sit in. 

“Just call me Wash. I’m not too fond of my first name myself,” the other man calmly said, straightening a stack of papers on his desk that had already been perfectly in order.

If he was annoyed by Tucker’s attitude, he didn’t show it. Not like the first time they met. Back then, Tucker could see the twitch in the man’s brow and displeasure twisting at his lips. And for some reason, Tucker wanted to see it again. 

“Okay. _Wash_. Fine. Still a weird name,” he scoffed. 

There it was. The miniscule twitch. But whatever sense of triumph Tucker felt was quickly sucked away as Wash’s shoulders tensed. Oh man. Tucker recognized this stance. It was the stance almost every adult took before they began to lecture. 

“Look, Tucker, I’m only trying to get to know you before school let’s out. I’m here to _help_ you, not make things difficult— which you seem very intent on doing for me. Your old counselor, Mr. Flowers, told me you and a couple of others were regular visitors,” Wash earnestly revealed, all frowns and worry. “I just thought we should get to know each other a little before the new year starts. I want you to feel comfortable coming to me like you did with Butch. I believe we can— No. I think it would be _good_ if we got along.” 

Tucker glared at the ground, trying not to feel as awful as he did. But it didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to be here talking to some stranger he hardly knew and had just made him feel like the world’s biggest ass. Apparently Wash caught on, because he suddenly looked sheepish and a bit embarrassed on his own behalf. He cleared his throat. 

“Right. Well then…if there’s anything you’d like me to know—”

Tucker abruptly stood, grabbing his backpack off the ground, and all of a sudden very upset— though he didn’t know why. “I think you should know that I hate you,” he first said. “And that I hate your cat posters and I never want to be here again.” 

Then he fled because he couldn’t stand to see the crushed look on his new counselor’s face.

 

Tucker didn’t even realize the school had he’d been running down was no longer a hall, but a long dark street, until he got control of his emotions and forced himself to stop. He was in another memory, still sixteen and dumb and young, trying to catch his breath in front of a flat, one-story house, that hadn’t seen a renovation in years. 

It had green shingles and beige paint and Tucker hated it more than anything else. It was the last place he ever wanted to be, but the one place he couldn’t ever leave because his mom was there and so was the man that liked to call himself his dad. And so long as she was there, Tucker would never leave. 

Because if there was anything in this world Tucker knew for certain, it was that his dad would kill her if he could— if the law wouldn’t put him in jail. 

Tucker and her both.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how grateful I am that you've expressed interest in this. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

Tucker…was at a loss. 

More than slightly disoriented, he was very confused. Somehow… _somehow_ …he had managed to land himself back in his current apartment. 

Tucker listened to Caboose laughing in the living room behind him as the TV played on. He wished he could say he knew how it happened but he didn’t. He’d stepped into his old house, expecting to see and _feel_ the worst, and then…nothing. Swirling darkness and a sickening lurch and here he was standing in the kitchen doorway. Watching Church make a peanut butter sandwich.

Weird. Something about this was really…weird. If he could only tell what it was…

Tucker stayed quiet, struggling to get sift through the fog in his mind, until his friend had finished with his sandwich and cut it in half. 

It was only after Church shoved one of the halves into his mouth and turned to go to the fridge that he noticed Tucker. 

“ _Jesus-!_ ” 

Despite himself, Tucker smirked. “Sorry, try again.” 

Church scowled. “Whatever asshole.” He tossed the rest of his sandwich onto the counter, clearly not in the mood to eat anymore. “You know, you could at least bring our knives back.”

“Yeah, because clearly that’s what’s more important here,” Tucker retorted. 

Church rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying. It’s poor manners.” 

“You _really_ wanna start something about ‘poor manners’?” Tucker disbelievingly laughed. “Because I’ve got about a hundred- _thousand_ things to say about you-”

“ _Annd_ I suddenly don’t care,” Church scoffed, a smug look on his face. Typical. “Judging by your reaction, I’m gonna go on ahead and say you remember things this time. So you figure something out?” 

“Figure something out?” Tucker echoed, not bothering to keep the incredulous look off his face. “Dude, I know even _less_ about what the fuck is going on. It’s like jumping to different places in a horribly put-together scrapbook! Honestly I don’t—” he stopped as a bright red flag went up in his mind.

 _Weird_. He suddenly realized what was so weird. 

The places he visited so far had been brief, but they were _memories_ , important ones in fact. They were moments that had really happened in his life… But _this_ wasn’t. 

He frowned at Church. “How come you remember?” 

“Come again?” 

Tucker gestured helplessly with his arms. “All of this… you remember me coming back here every time. And apparently so does Caboose. Why?” he wondered. 

Church shrugged and leaned against the counter. “You keep asking that question as if I have the answer. I told you I don’t know.” He looked surprisingly unbothered by the whole affair. “Did you at least learn where you keep popping off to?” 

Tucker shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly very uncomfortable. “Yeah. I mean…maybe?” Church continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation. 

Defeated, Tucker dropped his gaze, muttering, “Memories.” 

“What?” 

“I think it’s my memories. At least I think they are,” Tucker mumbled. 

“Why the fuck would you be cycling through your memories?” Church asked in disbelief. 

“The hell if I know. I recognize them, that’s all, but it still doesn’t mean anything to me,” Tucker answered, mouth twisted in the way it only got when he was truly upset. He stopped looking at the ground to glare at Church. “Which is why this doesn’t make sense. Why do I keep coming back _here_? This isn’t a memory— but for some reason you and Caboose know exactly what’s going on.” 

Church met Tucker’s glare with one of his own. “If you’re accusing me of something, you’re way off the mark. Wherever we are, it’s because of _you_. Whatever I _know_ , is because of _you_.” 

“I’m not accusing you, Church, I just want answers!” Tucker snapped.

“Well you won’t get them by standing here yelling at me!” Church snapped back. “Cool off, dickweed, and start using your fucking brain! What the hell did you want to fix?!”

“Shit, Church, I don’t _know!_ ” Tucker exploded. “I don’t know why I said that! I don’t even fucking remember it! What the fuck did I want to fix?! You can’t fix fucking _memories!_ ” 

The air around them stilled. 

Tucker stood, chest heaving, trying desperately to get a grip on his emotions before they blazed entirely out of control. But he couldn’t think and _nothing made sense_ and _why_ was it so hard to _breathe_? He could barely see Church standing across from him through the corners of his blackening vision, much less make out the strange expression on his face. And for a second, they weren’t in the kitchen, and Church was sitting at his side, looking terrified and sick and just as awful as Tucker felt. 

And then it was gone, and they were in the kitchen, standing on opposite ends. 

Tucker’s shoulders slumped, his head pounding with a merciless ache. “You can’t fix them…” he weakly said, to himself, to Church, he didn’t know or care. “You just remember them, and what they were.” 

Silence. Dead silence— when all of a sudden Church spoke again— wide-eyed and solemn, and looking a way like Tucker had never before seen. 

“Tucker… What don’t you want to remember?”

He never got to answer. He was taken away.

 

The kitchen was gone, replaced with pulsing beats and seizure-inducing lights. It took a moment of being shoved around between a horde of sweaty bodies for Tucker to realize where he was.

Party. Freshman year. Grif. October.

The key facts tumbled like broken pieces of a puzzle in his brain, slowly sticking themselves back together.

 _When he first met Grif, it was at a party, freshman year, in early October._

He had gotten into a fight with Wash over something stupid— like damn— he couldn’t even remember what it was. But he remembered how it ended, with Wash curtly telling him not to call until he grew up, and Tucker oh-so-maturely telling him to fuck off. And he’d spent the entire day stewing over his complicated relationship that wasn’t _actually_ a relationship with Wash until a girl who sat beside him in his morning lecture sidled on over and invited him to a Thursday night party. 

Of course he went. Screw Wash and his old man morals and stupid existence that were constantly making Tucker want to be a better person. 

Thursday night and Tucker was at his first real college party. Scrabble nights— with an overly analytical Simmons, a pissy Church, who insisted every bullshit word he put down was real (dickbutt? Really?), and Caboose who just put the letters together in no particular order— was not his idea of a party. Much less a fun one. So here Tucker was at a _real_ party. 

And he hated it. 

The house he was in honestly could’ve passed as a prison, packed with horny girls and guys alike. His ears were vibrating on the brink of explosion as music blasted from a large speaker while his eyes were assaulted by an absurd number of flashing lights, because apparently ten strobe lights wasn’t enough to get the ‘party’ feel.

Tucker was being attacked on all sides, and not in the way he liked, and if he shoved a couple people in his frenzied escape from the place, it couldn’t be held against him. 

Outside the air was brisk and cold, but more importantly, _fresh_. Tucker leaned over the small deck jutting from the house, trying not to look like he was dying. Man— this _blowed_. He didn’t know anyone inside and his friends sucked for not coming along. 

Church had taken one look at the house and refused to go in, walking off with Caboose as he explained to their other roommate that this was how people contracted STDs and about fifty other diseases Tucker was pretty sure didn’t exist. Simmons lingered for a bit longer, telling Tucker to call him if he needed a ride back and to please not get arrested. 

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ Simmons had called behind him, racing after Church and Caboose. And Tucker had shouted something along the lines back that sure, he might as well just lie himself in a box and do nothing because that was _exactly_ what Simmons’ life was like. 

“Want a smoke?” 

Tucker broke from his thoughts. A somewhat heavyset guy with tan skin and brown hair leaned on the deck beside him, tufts of hair on his chin, and bundled like he was in Alaska, not PA. He’d been looking at the sky in boredom, a cigarette hanging from his lips, when he glanced Tucker’s way. Tucker’s nose curled at the smell, reminding him of times better left at home. 

“No thanks,” he refused. 

“Suit yourself,” the guy shrugged. 

And that had basically been it. They stood there for the next fifteen minutes in near total silence, the house’s music, hollers and hoots, and sound of people puking in the yard below filling the quiet that would’ve otherwise been awkward. Tucker pulled out his phone, having had enough of everything that wasn’t his own apartment, and reluctantly called Simmons. It rang three times before going to voicemail.

Tucker lowered the phone, affronted. Did Simmons just decline his call? After he _told_ Tucker to call him? Before he had time to curse his nerd of a friend out in his mind, Simmons called back. 

“What the fuck was that about?” Tucker snapped. 

“ _Sorry, sorry! It wasn’t me— it was Church!_ ” Simmons babbled, voice rising to a squeak. “ _He said we should leave you no matter what you wanted and that you were stupid for going in the first place!_ ” 

“First of all, fuck him,” Tucker huffed. “Second, come pick me up?” 

“ _Yeah, sure, hold on!_ ” There was shuffling on the other end. “ _I’ll be there in ten._ ” 

“Thanks Simmons.” Tucker slid the phone back into his jeans, plotting about fifteen hundred ways to kill Church in his sleep. 

“You know a Simmons?” 

Tucker jumped, completely forgetting he hadn’t been alone. The guy from earlier was still there, only now he was looking at Tucker with a dead serious look. Somewhat unnerved, Tucker slowly said, “Yes…?”

He watched as the guy’s brows slowly pinched together, lips twisting down—and absolutely _didn’t_ shriek and almost shit his pants as the guy lunged forward and seized his shoulders. 

“ _Tell that bastard to pay me back!_ ”

“Whoa! What the hell?! Get off me!” Tucker exclaimed, trying to pull away. 

“He threw my M&M’s away in class! Said it was a _distraction!_ ” the guy cried. “I wasn’t throwing them in _his_ mouth!” 

“Dude, you’re crazy! Who the hell even are you?!” 

The guy released him and took a step back, breathing hard, cheeks red. Tucker would’ve turned and ran if he wasn’t terrified the guy would chase him down. 

“ _Grif_ ,” the guy wheezed. “People…call me… _Grif_.”

Tucker stared. “What the fuck.” 

The guy, Grif, visibly deflated. “You probably think I overreacted—”

“—you fucking think?”

“—but they cost my last dollar and I can’t believe that _kiss-ass_ tattled on me to the professor. We’re not in fifth grade. The professor didn’t even care!” 

Though it _did_ kind of sound like the kind of thing the Simmons Tucker knew would do, and it wasn’t exactly a common last name in the area, he had to be sure. Tucker squinted at Grif. “Are we talking about the same Simmons here?” 

Grif snorted. “There’s only one I know in our freshman class. Wears glasses, is a ginger, looks like the biggest nerd on earth?” 

Tucker frowned, a little defensive over his high school friend. “Hey, he’s not a nerd. Fuck off.” 

Grif rolled his eyes. “Don’t take it personally. You’re not the one who stole my M&M’s.” 

“That’s not the point—”

A familiar car swerved in front the sidewalk. Simmons leaned his head outside and called out, “Hey Tucker! I’m here!” 

“No shit,” Tucker called back down. He glared at Grif before quickly jogging down the steps. It was until he reached the car and was looking at Simmons from the driver’s side that he realized he’d been followed.

 _“Holy-!”_

“Hey, _Simmons_ ,” Grif growled. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Tucker turned, ready to make the other guy _back the fuck off_ , when Simmons angrily snapped, 

“What are _you_ doing here fatass?” 

“It’s a party. Can’t say I’m surprised you weren’t invited.” 

“Can’t say I’m surprised you _were_. Seems like your _type_ of scene.” 

“My type of scene is sitting on a couch eating M&M’s and Doritos, which you wouldn’t know anything about since you probably just read books all day and cry over stupid nerd stuff like Star Trek Wars, or whatever the fuck it’s called.” 

“Those are two completely different things!” Simmons exclaimed in frustration. 

Tucker glanced in between them, not even aware he had moved out of the way to watch. As scary as it was how accurate Grif’s assumptions of Simmons were…just…Wow. He had never seen Simmons this worked up before. Defend him? Tucker would’ve gotten _reamed_ if he tried to get in the middle of this. 

“Whatever, I don’t have time to fight over something stupid like this. I’m going home,” Grif snapped, stomping off down the dark sidewalk. 

“You started it!” Simmons yelled after him out the window. “No one told you to come to the car!” 

“Screw you!” Grif yelled back. And then he was gone. 

And then it was Tucker and Simmons in front of the still wildly partying house, looking at each other, wide-eyed. 

Simmons cleared his throat and unlocked the doors of his van. “So, um—” his voice cracked. “You, uh, coming in or…?”

“Huh? Oh, um, yeah. Let me just…” Tucker hurried to the passenger side. He clicked his seatbelt in and in the next second they were driving down the road and Tucker could _not_ get that argument out of his head. “So I’m… guessing you two know each other?” 

Simmons hands tightened on the wheel. “Unfortunately.” 

“Is he like…harassing you or something? You want me to get Tex on him?”

“No, it’s not like that!” Simmons quickly exclaimed, his cheeks turning red. “He’s just this stupid idiot in my class!”

Tucker gave him a weird look. 

“O- _kay?_ ” 

He shifted his gaze outside the window as Simmons nervously chattered about Caboose burning butter and thank _God_ Tucker had called when he did because Church was beginning to strangle Caboose and Simmons really had no idea what to do short of leaping into the crossfire, and Simmons was _not_ about to sacrifice himself over a piece of margarine...

The story went on. Eventually Tucker tuned out Simmons' babbling. He suddenly felt exhausted, struck by an odd chill, that seeped in through every vent in the car and settled itself into the small space like an unwanted guest.

Tucker slumped down in the passenger seat and frowned, watching the streetlamps and bright signs of the town streets they drove along mesh into one huge grey- 

 

Blur. 

Tucker slowly blinked, taking in the misty fog and overcast skies.

It was autumn and brisk; the sidewalk beneath him rough and cool and scarred with cracks. He glanced down at his hand resting behind him on the curb. It was small— smaller than usual.

Oh. He remembered this. Pain ebbed slowly into him, as if it had been waiting for him to recognize the fact. His palms were scraped, his knees too. The side of his face stung worse than usual. 

Well…his dad had been in a worse mood than usual, so no surprise there.

Monday— Memorial Day— no school because of the holiday. His mom was still at work and wouldn’t be home for another three hours. She worked a lot of jobs. He knew that because she was always tired when she came home. Always coming home to clean, to change her clothes, and leave again. Tucker wished she wouldn’t leave him alone so much. It was alright for now, since his dad had fallen asleep, lying on the couch with the TV remote in hand.

Tucker had left the house— not like his dad cared— wandering some ways down the street until he was in an unfamiliar neighborhood, with houses much nicer than his own and yards big enough to play in. 

There were some kids his age playing in a driveway across the street, but they looked older, not in elementary school like him. He watched them for a bit and then stared at his feet.

He wanted friends too. 

A soccer ball nailed him in the back. 

Tucker hit the street, yelping, grabbing at his smarting back. “ _Ow!_ ” 

“Aw crap. Sorry!” 

Tucker painfully turned, glaring at the boy sheepishly picking the soccer ball up from the sidewalk. He had dark hair and green eyes and skin so pale he kind of looked sick. The boy noticed Tucker’s glare and slowly began to glare back. 

“What? I said I was sorry.” 

“It still _hurt_ ,” Tucker retorted. 

“Whatever.” The boy looked like he was going to say something else, but stopped as his eyes fell on Tucker’s skinned knees. “Did I do that?” 

Tucker followed his line of sight and felt himself shrink. “No,” he quickly said. “I tripped.” But the boy didn’t seem to hear him, throwing back his head with an exasperated groan. 

“Oh man, mom’s gonna kill me! Come on, let her give you a band-aid or something,” he said, beckoning his way. 

Tucker stepped back. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

The boy frowned. “It looks like it does. You don’t want a band-aid?” he curiously asked. 

Tucker did. Tucker wanted enough band-aids to cover all his wounds, but he didn’t think they made that many. But… Tucker hesitantly stepped towards the other boy.

But maybe getting one was a good enough start. 

“I’m Church. Who’re you?” the boy said over his shoulder. 

“Tucker.”

He wanted to remember that. He wanted to remember _this_.

 

It was gone in the blink of an eye. 

Now he was stuck in his apartment on the living room couch on a Friday, and Fridays sucked, but this one more than ever. He wanted nothing more than to get out of. Get out and never go back again. But he couldn’t. Something felt strange. His memories of the scene were vague, almost transparent, lacking details most of his others had. 

None of these odd feelings changed the reality of the situation though. None of them could. 

He sat on the couch, shocked, his cell blinking in his lap and Tucker wondered if it was possible for someone’s heart to just stop beating, and them be stuck alive, unable to feel or breathe but still be _alive_. 

Caboose didn’t get it. He kept asking when Tex was coming over because she promised to help him finish his scrapbook. Tucker wanted to cry. He wanted to run away. He _wanted_ to wake up from whatever fucking dream he’d fallen into because there was _no way_ this was real. Tex was tougher than steel, invincible. She kept them in line and all together and _no_ — this couldn’t be real. 

And when Church had come home, he'd come home cheerful, bragging about a game he stole from Grif, and Tucker _couldn’t move_. 

Church noticed right away something wasn’t right. He dumped his bag by the door and went to Tucker, demanding to know what had happened, what was wrong. 

“Tex…” It was all Tucker could say.

Church looked and him and looked and him and _looked_ at him as if he didn’t get it, as if he was just as clueless as Caboose, and Tucker _couldn’t_ say anything else. Not even when the realization fell on Church’s face and the denial hit _hard_ and fast like a train they both saw coming but couldn’t run away from.

 

 _This_ he didn’t want to remember. Not ever. Not at all. This he wanted to _forget_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously just wanted to thank you guys for taking the time to review/ even read this. I appreciate it a lot. I want to reply to your comments but I don't think there's a way to do it privately? Like a...PM of sorts? I usually post on Fanfiction.net, so I don't know how comment works here short of having everyone see what I say haha. So... 
> 
> Yes! I do receive your comments, and I'd really like to reply. (in case anyone was wondering)

“Look, Tucker... I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’re the one who came to me.”

Tucker glowered at David Washington— Wash— _whatever_ , from where he sat on the other side of the desk. It was the start of senior year, two weeks into the last year of high school he’d ever have, the year that was supposed to be the best, and he was _here_. In this stupid little office with his new counselor gazing concernedly his way.

It wasn’t like Tucker _wanted_ to come here (the place was still full of cats and inspirational quotes no one actually said in real life) but somehow his feet had taken him when sitting in class had gotten to be too much.

Stupid habit.

He’d half expected to see his old counselor, Mr. Flowers, waiting with a smile and open arms. Instead he saw Wash, looking up in shock.

And that’s how they’d gotten to where they were, with Wash still confused, and Tucker still annoyed he had even come here in the first place. It’d be easy to leave. Seriously it would. But then he’d have to sit through another twenty minutes of Pre-Calc. _Ughh_. Even thinking of it made Tucker want to throw himself in the pits of Hell.

“I didn’t want to be in class,” he found himself saying. Turned out that was the wrong thing to say, since Wash was pulling himself up in that irritatingly familiar lecturing way.

“Tucker, I understand if you’re having trouble in class and might want to come see me...but I’m not here to let you skip class without a reason.”

“I have a reason. I don’t want to be in class,” Tucker pointedly replied. Wash sighed one of those barely controlled sighs and fixed Tucker with a stern 'I'm-going-to-try-to-be-patient' gaze.

“Alright. You don’t want to be in class. Is there any reason why?”

Tucker shifted, fighting back a scowl. The new counselor seemed like the sort to shoo him from the office if he didn’t answer. “I just…didn’t want to be there,” he muttered. “It’s boring and I don’t get any of it.”

“Are you paying attention?”

“ _Yeah_ , I’m _paying attention_ ,” Tucker snappishly replied.

"Then what is the issue?"

“Mr. Reggie teaches too fast and doesn’t bother to answer questions when we ask. Everyone hates it but he doesn’t even notice because he’s too busy worrying about how sloppy his handwriting looks and if his moustache needs to be trimmed! No one cares, and it _sucks_.”

Wash frowned. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that. I can—”

“But you know what sucks more? Trying to tell him I’m not _lying_ when I say I lost my homework,” Tucker interrupted, suddenly having a lot he thought his counselor needed to know because it had only just dawned on him how much his life could suck and how everyone in the world around him sucked more.

“It’s not my fault my mom keeps cleaning and throwing away stuff left on the table. It’s not my fault she doesn’t _remember_ that I told her not to ‘cuz it’s my homework and I can’t lose it! And Simmons keeps asking me to join the band because ‘it’d be good for me’ but I can’t even play a fucking instrument and _hello_ it’s _senior year_ — how the hell could I join the band now?! And why the _fuck_ does Felix keep harassing me? I beat him _once_ in sixth grade playing soccer. _Once_. Who holds a grudge for that long?!”

Silence fell in the office. Wash stared up at him, eyes huge and mouth dropped open. Tucker threw himself away from the desk, not even noticing he’d stood and slammed his hands on it.

The receptionist outside the office clacked impassively on her keys. She was used to Tucker’s blow-ups. He did it often enough with Flowers...

 _Flowers_ not Wash and _oh God_. Tucker looked at Wash in horror.

“I…shit. Fuck. No, um, _fuck_.”

“Tucker, wait—”

He was already out the door. But so was Wash.

Tucker flinched as a strong hand seized his arm and caught him in the doorway. And suddenly his heart was racing a thousand miles faster than before, nausea sloshing like an unsettled drink in his gut. He didn't expect the sudden grab; didn't expect his counselor to move so quickly. It wasn't a rough grip by any means but still it spooked him.

He thought he was being reeled back in for a hit.

Stupid thought since he was in school, and Tucker had always felt considerably more safe inside it, even if he hated all the learning involved. 

"Tucker, please. Calm down."

Tucker tore his gaze from the foreign hand on his arm, unaware he'd been staring at it like a petrified animal or that his breath had grown short. Wash was looking at him, startled, as if he hadn't expected himself to leap from his chair and grab Tucker either. Gone were hard lines creasing his face, replaced by an expression more surprised than anything else and eyes soft in confusion.

"You don't have to run," he said.

Tucker barely heard the words through the sudden fog in his head. There wasn't enough room. Too close. This... _stranger_ was too close. He was being boxed in.

"Let go of me," he croaked out in a quiet, strangled voice. Shouldn't a counselor know this? Not to get so close?

But Wash didn't let go. In fact his grip grew tighter. He looked concerned, though Tucker didn't know why. They didn't know each other. They weren't on good terms. So why was his counselor looking at him like that? Why was he trying to bring him back into the room?

"Tucker," Wash was saying in a very controlled voice, twice as low and gentle than usual. "I think you should sit down now."

"What?" Tucker heard himself, distantly answer. Things were getting strange. He felt like he was floating and lodged firmly to the ground all at once.

"Come sit down, Tucker. It's okay."

A hand began to guide him towards a seat. An ugly, plastic seat. Man, he hated that thing. Somewhere close-by he could hear voices murmuring, posing questions his way. No. Not his way. Wash was answering. They were asking Wash. Tucker couldn't care less about what was being said. He needed to hurl.

"I'm gonna puke," he announced to no one in particular, his mind drifting as if torn between two places at once. Still- he saw Wash turn towards him with a frown. Huh. When did he get back in the doorway?

"What?" his counselor asked.

Tucker drew himself up. "I'm _going_. To. Puke."

 

"At least do it where no one can step in it," Simmons whined, jogging beside him with newfound anxiety. Tucker nearly stumbled over.

Simmons quickly grabbed his arm before he could fall. Immediately Tucker seized up. Simmons dropped his arm, just as fast, and gave his friend an apologetic look.

"Sorry, sorry. I thought you were about to pass out," he hurriedly said, cheeks red with exhaustion and chest heaving.

"I feel like it," Tucker muttered, slowly straightening up. A brisk breeze blew by. He tilted back his head and tried to force the air into his wheezing lungs. His head _seriously_ needed to stop throwing him around like some rag doll. Bouts of dizziness and sense of displacement aside, he honestly felt like he was about to _die_.

Though it could have something to do with the obscene amount of laps they were being forced to run around the campus.

The day was so sunny and clear, all blue skies and lazy clouds. Tucker had _almost_ been convinced today was going to be awesome.

Until he remembered they had Phys. Ed third period. He hated Gen. Eds to begin with since they were never courses he wanted to take. But having a good professor would sometimes make them bearable. Of course Tucker didn't have that luck. Their professor for _this_ course was insane- no other word for it.

A middle-aged, salt and peppered haired man with a weathered face called 'Sarge'. He was a character all right, obsessed with red, and carrying an accent so southern it didn't even _sound_ southern. Most of the time it was some sort of gruff, nonsensical mumbo-jumbo that came out.

Other professors let their students use the campus gym for workouts or had them do simple evaluations for the midterm. Sarge liked to make them run three miles.

Tucker and Simmons had barely finished the first mile, stopped by the eastern part of campus near their Humanities building for much needed rest. It was during class time so not many students were out. They were probably sitting inside sterile classrooms, circulated by air conditioning, and full of decently comfy seats.

Lucky bastards.

Tucker tightened the band keeping his long dreads together on top his head. "Can't we just skip out?" he asked Simmons, almost on the verge of desperation. "Sarge isn't around, he'll never know."

"I think he'll know when we don't _check back in_ ," Simmons answered. "Besides, this isn't so bad," he said, drawing himself up. "I actually feel like I'm doing something."

Tucker couldn't help but snort. "That's what happens when you finally step outside away from your computer."

"It's a laptop, Tucker. A lot of people and common households don't have computers anymore."

Tucker stared. "Are you seriously arguing with me over this?"

"Well don't say things incorrectly," Simmons huffed, beginning to jog once more down the wide sidewalk they were on. Tucker shook his head and reluctantly jogged after him. They ran in complete silence for a time, gasping every once in a while when they remembered how to breathe. And then they rounded the corner of the Math building-

And Simmons disappeared.

"Fuck!"

Tucker skidded to a halt. Simmons mumbled something inaudible from where he was sprawled on the ground on top an angry, grumbling figure. A very familiar figure in fact.

 _"Grif?_ "

"Dammit, that was a good dream ruined!" Grif whined, shoving Simmons off of him. "You better have a damn good excuse for waking me up."

Tucker looked and looked at the larger man, doubting his eyes for a good five seconds. "Were you _sleeping_?"

"Well I wasn't _awake_ ," Grif snapped. He climbed to his feet, reaching to haul Simmons up too. Simmons accepted the help with no fuss, though once he was on his feet made a point to tear himself away. Tucker watched them the same way he sometimes found himself watching Church and Tex. He couldn't tell when they were on good terms and when they were on bad terms, of if they just constantly existed in some sort of grey space in between.

It'd been a good five months since the first time Tucker met Grif, and after that incident at the party, he had noticed the other male around campus a heck of a lot more. Probably because he recognized him now. Also because whenever Simmons was around, he would make a point to single out Grif and usher Tucker in a new direction.

Apparently things hadn't gotten better in that lecture class they shared- if Simmons' constant complaints were anything to go by- but they'd reached a strange...stage in whatever they wanted to call their 'friendship' (and Tucker used that word very, _very_ loosely), so by the time Spring semester rolled around and they wound up in the same Phys. Ed class, Tucker had gotten acquainted with Grif purely by association and forced proximity.

"How long were you laying there for?" Tucker incredulously asked.

Grif shrugged. "Ten, fifteen minutes. Maybe more, I don't know."

Simmons' brows furrowed. "What _happened?_ "

"I got tired and laid down, that's what happened," Grif responded with equally furrowed brows. "Until you _stepped_ on me."

"I _fell_ ," Simmons defensively replied.

"I'm pretty sure we're not the only ones who passed by," Tucker piped up. "They didn't try to wake you?"

Grif looked at him with something like amusement in his eyes. "Well-"

"What in Sam Hill's name is going on here?!" a fourth,  _loud_ voice suddenly interrupted from behind.

Grif slouched, all previous life and joy he'd been filled with gone. "Oh great."

"Oh no!" Simmons panicked. He shook Tucker's shoulder. "We have to run. _Hurry_!"

Tucker ignored Simmons, too busy staring at their professor cruising down the sidewalk towards them in a _fucking golf cart._ Sarge stopped right beside Tucker, shooting them all dirty looks, his mouth twisted down in a great, big scowl.

"You boys wanna tell me why you're gabbing and not running?" he demanded to know.

 "Um, I'm more curious about where the hell you got that thing," Grif answered, eyes fixed on the cart.

"Shut up Grif!" Simmons hissed, elbowing the larger man in the side. He looked back at their professor, a nervously smiling. "We were just stopping to tie our shoes, sir! We were running quite hard before."

" _Kiss-ass_ ," Grif muttered.

"Well your shoes are tied," Sarge said. "So get moving, on the double!"

"Yes sir!"

"Seriously. Why do you have that?" Grif persisted, still looking at the golf cart. "We don't even have a golf course!"

"Quiet, dirtbag!" Sarge barked. "It's so I can keep tabs on no-good  _slackers_ like you lot!"

"I'm not a slacker," Grif scoffed. "I'm just a really slow runner."

Simmons turned to him in disbelief. "You were literally sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk."

Grif scowled at the words. "Yeah, until you tripped over me. Good going, dumbass. You tore me from a once-in-a-lifetime dream about donuts and marriage."

"There were _donuts_ at your wedding?"

" _No_. I was getting married _to_ the donuts," Grif pointedly said. "Get with the program."

"What  _program?_ What the hell are you talking about?" Simmons cried.

Tucker rolled his eyes and switched his attention to their professor, raising a hand. "Can I go home?"  

Sarge whipped his head away from the argument between Grif and Simmons. "No! Now quit standing around and get running before I give you an 'F'!" He swung a finger towards the pair still bickering off to the side, raising his voice to be heard. "That includes you two morons too! Don't make me run you over with this thing," he threatened, slapping his hand on the wheel of his golf cart several times.

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal," Grif replied flatly, but he turned and began running down the sidewalk all the same. Granted he was going about one-mile per hour, but his arms were still swinging and at least he was moving, so technically Sarge couldn't complain.

" _Ugh_. This fucking sucks," Tucker complained, starting to run again too. Simmons followed and they easily passed Grif.

"Yeah, but at least we're moving fast enough to get away from _that_ ," his friend said, clearly talking about Sarge who had taken to riding beside Grif until the other male picked up the pace.

"Man. I just wanna go home," Tucker whined. To the apartment with Church and Caboose, he meant. That was what home was to Tucker. One of the places where he actually always _wanted_ to be.  

"You and me both," Simmons huffed. "A new episode of Sherlock came out today and everyone's been blowing up about it on Tumblr. Don't people know what spoiler tags are?"

Tucker barely sighed as Simmons rambled on. Mostly because it was hard as _fuck_ to do while running and was Simmons _still_ talking?

"Dude, just shut up already!"

 

“Tucker, I’m trying to tell you something important,” Wash replied, somewhat exasperatedly.

Tucker lowered the menu he’d been trying to study— and scowled.

A diner, and it’s not the nicest, with fluorescent lights and white walls and green tiles that looked like they belonged more in the hospital of some psycho and not in a place where people came to eat. Maybe that was why the only other customer besides them was some middle-aged man hunched neurotically over a stack of puzzle books. The kitchen was loud enough as the one cook inside clanged pots and pans and set meat on the stove to sizzle. Somehow even _that_ wasn’t loud enough to stop Tucker from thinking that he was— hands down— in the creepiest diner that ever existed.

“That’s what you said the entire ride down here but you still never said what the ‘important’ thing was,” Tucker pointed out, using air quotes only because it ticked Wash off.

Sure enough Wash’s eyes locked onto his curling fingers as if they had personally murdered one of his cats. “ _Dude_ ,” Tucker stressed, when Wash still hadn’t look away.

Wash cleared his throat, snapping out of whatever weird-ass daze he put himself into. “Right. Yes.”

Tucker rolled his eyes.

“Normally we would’ve talked on the phone, texted, or email…” Wash began. “But I wanted to tell you face-to-face.”

Tucker suspiciously squinted. “You’re not getting _married_ , are you? Seriously, you could’ve sent the invite in the mail instead of making me meet you halfway in the middle of nowhere.”

Wash stared at him. “My house is more than _half_ the distance from here compared to campus. You didn’t even drive here. Wasn’t it Church who dropped you off?”

“Psh. Semantics.”

“That’s not what that word means.”

The waitress came over then, finally bringing them the two cups of water they ordered five minutes ago. She asked for their order. Tucker muttered something about a burger and fries while Wash politely asked for some sort of vegetable salad— as if a salad could get even _more_ disgusting than it already was.

“Like why even bother eating out if that’s all you’re going to get?” Tucker was saying as the waitress walked away. “Just grab some fucking grass out your backyard or something.”

“You’re an idiot,” Wash flatly replied.

And a long time ago Tucker might’ve been offended. But it’s his third year knowing the older man, and Wash was nothing at all like the uptight, struggling-to-make-a-good-impression counselor he first appeared to be. Well…cancel the uptight part, because Wash could be uptight as _fuck_.

“Wash. _Why_ am I here?” Tucker demanded to know.

“Like I said, there’s something I needed to tell you and thought it best I tell you in person,” his ex-counselor answered. Tucker raised his brows, waiting. Wash’s lips pressed into a thin line as if he were trying to think how to word what he would say next and what Tucker’s reaction would be.

Finally his shoulders drew back and Wash lifted his chin, trying to look as matter-of-fact as he could.

“I’m moving.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. For a second Tucker could only blink.

Moving. Like…moving _away_. Like Tucker and his mom did after he graduated high school and his mom _finally_ filed for divorce.

“Tucker?” Wash gazed at him in worry.

Tucker forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes, planning on asking where he was moving too or maybe how soon he’d be leaving. But what came out instead was a cold,“Why?” that took even him by surprise.

“Well I…” Why did Wash look so caught off guard? “It’s nearing the end of your second semester. You’ll be a sophomore once the summer ends. And it sounds like you’ve settled into college pretty well with Church, Caboose, and your other friends. The trust fund will only be enough for half of the next semester, but with the financial aid and scholarships you applied for I think you’ll be okay. And…even if your grades aren’t the best, you’ve got a part-time job lined up, right?”

Tucker nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“You and I… We’ve talked a lot you know and I—” Wash paused, struggling briefly on the rest of his sentence, “—It made my think about my own life in some aspects. I liked being a high school counselor, and I still do. But I…also got a job opportunity near Beacon. It’s a little different; I’ll be working alongside others in a community counseling group. Pays better. You remember Doc, right? He’s the one who told me.”

A small smile twisted his lips, despite the anxious look Wash was sending Tucker’s way— which was _ridiculous_ since Wash was like a ga-jillion years older and shouldn’t have to seek the approval of anyone, least of all _Tucker_.

And though Tucker was thinking thoughts like this, he was also thinking of the name Beacon and how it was _literally_ thirty minutes away from Kendell University.

Their waitress appeared and set their food on the table in between, but Tucker couldn’t really think of eating right now and Wash was hesitantly gazing at him, waiting for some sort of response.

“Yeah…well that’s…” Tucker stared down into at his burger, face heating from the steam curling off the plate. “That’s kinda close to my campus, right?”

Wash awkwardly cleared his throat. He seemed to do that a lot when they were together. “Yes I… I suppose it is.”

“Oh.” For some reason Tucker couldn’t lift his eyes. “That’s cool. We can still talk and stuff then.”

“Yes we— _yes_ of course we can.” And if Wash didn’t sound like the most relieved motherfucker… “I’d like it if we stayed in contact,” he smiled. “If that’s alright with you,” he added quickly afterwards. .

Tucker snorted. “Whatever. I don’t care.” Except he did, and it must’ve come across so obviously in his voice because the next thing he knew Wash was chuckling.

Tucker whipped his head up to tell Wash where he could shove it when he saw his ex-counselor pulling _his_ plate over to the other side. Tucker’s eyes widened in horror as Wash began sweeping the raw broccoli off his salad and onto Tucker’s plate.

“Oh my God. _Stop_.”

Wash ignored him.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Vegetables aren’t going to kill you.”

“I don’t want them.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “You’re such a kid.”

“You’re such a mom,” Tucker retorted.

Wash purposefully gave Tucker all his carrots after that and then slid the plate back to Tucker’s side. Tucker glowered, hoping his glare would make the older man combust into flames.

It didn’t work.

Tucker picked up his fork and was just about to stab one of the carrots to throw at Wash when the table vanished, and the food disappeared, and the creepy diner all but dropped away into blue skies and grassy fields and the sounds of playing children.

 

_Oh no._

 

Tucker blinked, halfway across the playground before Church could stop him.

“Tucker— wait!”

But Tucker couldn’t think straight. O’Malley had pushed Caboose— _pushed_ him to the ground— and was trying to make the smaller blond eat dirt. O’Malley. Was. _Dead_.

Tucker watched his younger self join the confrontation, feeling helpless and desperate, and wanting nothing more than to make _it all stop_. But he couldn’t change what happened next no matter how much begging or praying he did, even though he never once believed God existed or miracles were real. It was like being forcibly tied in a chair and made to watch the worst possible movie anyone had ever made.

Seventh grade, recess, and he had just turned thirteen.

O’Malley was sneering, Tucker was shouting, and in the midst of it all Church was trying to pull Caboose back to his feet.

Then O’Malley punched Tucker _hard_.

So hard it split his lip. So hard he got mad and flew at the taller boy, neither of them watching where they were going, neither of them watching where they shoved and threw fists. And _God_ Caboose had tried getting in between, desperate to stop the fight, telling Tucker it wasn’t a big deal and then—

And then he’d been hit.

Hit so hard he fell before Tucker realized. Hit so hard that when he fell his head cracked on the wooden swing set curb and he just _didn’t_ get back _up_ again.

The Tucker who watched, the Tucker who couldn’t help, screamed for what he couldn’t stop. He was on his knees beside Caboose, trying to hold a memory that couldn’t be touched, trying to stop the bleeding, trying not to be swallowed by the fury and agony and _crushing_ guilt pressing in on all sides.

Because O’Malley hadn’t hit Caboose.

It hurt to breathe, much less think, as the space around Tucker grew fuzzy and warped. His head rattled like a coin trapped in a can, everywhere and nowhere at once, threatening to split his skull in two. How did things take a turn like this? He wanted out— couldn’t get out— _wanted_ out— _couldn’t get out_.

Something pulled, trying frantically to yank him from the memory (he didn’t want to be here; someone get him out) but for some reason he remained and the memory played on.

In front him thirteen year old Tucker had lost his mind. O’Malley was dead. _O’Malley was dead_.

Other kids were panicking, and a teacher on duty was running (where the _fuck_ was she when the fight was happening?), and Church knelt on the opposite side of Caboose, eyes large and mouth open in horror.

Tucker doesn’t want to remember this. He doesn’t want to remember _any_ of this but he can’t. Get. Out. And oh God…Caboose wasn’t _moving_. He was bleeding so much and still not moving.

And then it was the memory that wasn’t moving.

Tucker stayed, frozen, as if he were a scene pressed on pause. The pull came again, stronger than before. This time it snagged him firmly under the arms and hauled with the strength of a two ton truck, and he was flung into a darkness void of all light and sight except for a siren wailing loudly, accusingly in his head.

 

It didn’t matter that he got an out-of-school suspension or that O’Malley had to go to the emergency room because his arm was broken and he needed stitches. It didn’t matter that his dad beat his ass into next week (because _this_ time he deserved it) or that his mom had come home to the news crying in frustration and disappointment (she was never home anyway. How the hell could she judge?).

None of that mattered because Caboose had fallen so hard his head cracked open, spilling blood on the asphalt, and for the horrifying second before Tucker had been consumed by pure blinding rage, he thought Caboose had fucking _died_.

 

But no. He hadn’t died.

Tucker bitterly sat in the darkness as he remembered.

Caboose hadn’t died— but he wasn’t the same. It had been a bad fall, worse than it looked. Something had been damaged. He couldn’t talk well. He mixed up things he didn’t before. He was out of school for months, learning how to speak sentences again.

Tucker stayed home taking the beatings until he couldn’t think straight. Was this how Caboose would feel now? Dizzy and disconnected, unable to tell heads from tails? Tucker deserved it— deserved all of it. _A piece of shit son. A fuck-up. A murderer_. _An embarrassment to the family (_ what family?).

"I'm not", is what he could've said, but that would've been a fucking lie.

Church didn’t call for the longest time. It was lonely and Tucker didn’t like it and he…

He wished he had known Tex back then because she would’ve never let any of them get hurt like this.

 

Tucker didn’t want to be here anymore.

 

Outside and it was storming, the city streets dark and barely lit.

He stood on the other side of the street as lightning flashed and Tex reached down to offer a hand. That _monster_ leaped and from the ground and lunged at her (and _oh_ Tucker would _kill_ that fucker if he could) and Tucker’s running, though he’s too late, struck by a terrible sense of déjà vu. Except Caboose isn’t falling— it’s Tex— and Tucker physically can’t make it to her side.

A car whizzed in front, stopping him, headlights blinding and white.

 

Then nothing. There was nothing.

There was absolutely nothing.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm trying something new...and writing in the fandom for the first time (though I've been lurking for like years haha). So who knows how this'll turn out!


End file.
